“You were an intimate friend of her father’s—you cannot remember any business operations of his that might have resulted in ruin for some business opponent?”
Pennington shook his head helplessly. “No outstanding case. Such operations were frequent, of course, but I can’t recall anyone who uttered threats—nothing of that kind.”
In short, Mr. Pennington, you cannot help us?”
“It seems so. I deplore my inadequacy, gentlemen.”
Race interchanged a glance with Poirot, then he said: “I’m sorry too. We’d had hopes.”
He got up as a sign the interview was at an end.
Andrew Pennington said: “As Doyle’s laid up, I expect he’d like me to see to things. Pardon me, Colonel, but what exactly are the arrangements?”
“When we leave here we shall make a nonstop run to Shellal, arriving there tomorrow morning.”
“And the body?”
“Will be removed to one of the cold storage chambers.”
Andrew Pennington bowed his head. Then he left the room.
Poirot and Race again interchanged a glance.
“Mr. Pennington,” said Race, lighting a cigarette, “was not at all comfortable.”
Poirot nodded. “And,” he said, “Mr. Pennington was sufficiently perturbed to tell a rather stupid lie. He was not in the temple of Abu Simbel when that boulder fell. I—moi qui vous parle—can swear to that. I had just come from there.”
“A very stupid lie,” said Race, “and a very revealing one.”
Again Poirot nodded.
“But for the moment,” he said, and smiled, “we handle him with the gloves of kid, is it not so?”
“That was the idea,” agreed Race.
“My friend, you and I understand each other to a marvel.”
There was a faint grinding noise, a stir beneath their feet. The Karnak had started on her homeward journey to Shellal.
“The pearls,” said Race. “That is the next thing to be cleared up.”
“You have a plan?”
“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “It will be lunchtime in half an hour. At the end of the meal I propose to make an announcement—just state the fact that the pearls have been stolen, and that I must request everyone to stay in the dining saloon while a search is conducted.”
Poirot nodded approvingly.
“It is well imagined. Whoever took the pearls still has them. By giving no warning beforehand, there will be no chance of their being thrown overboard in a panic.”
Race drew some sheets of paper towards him. He murmured apologetically: “I’d like to make a brief précis of the facts as I go along. It keeps one’s mind free of confusion.”
“You do well. Method and order, they are everything,” replied Poirot.
Race wrote for some minutes in his small neat script. Finally he pushed the result of his labours towards Poirot.
“Anything you don’t agree with there?” Poirot took up the sheets. They were headed:
MURDER OF MRS. LINNET DOYLE